


Like the Holding of Hands, Like the Breaking of Glass

by kimdianajones



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Get rid of the longing we can't let people know we YEARN, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Men Crying, Miniseries inspired but book compliant, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), fire aftermath, mildly nsfw, obligatory Hozier title, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimdianajones/pseuds/kimdianajones
Summary: “And you drove the whole rest of the way there like that?” Aziraphale asked.“Yep.”“And you didn’t discorporate.”“Obviously.”He could practically hear the angel’s brain working as it put the pieces together. “Oh, my dear,” he breathed after a moment, and Crowley felt a second hand covering his own. “You must be exhausted.”In the wake of an averted apocalypse, an angel grieves, and a demon is drained. With their punishments looming over them, Crowley and Aziraphale attempt to tie up some loose ends.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 447





	Like the Holding of Hands, Like the Breaking of Glass

“… It burned down. Remember?”

Aziraphale’s eyes unfocused as he brought them away from Crowley’s, and he felt his heart crack into even more splits than it already possessed. No, by the looks of it, he hadn’t remembered. He hated himself for having brought it up; the angel didn’t deserve it. He’d spent centuries building up his little collection, and then making a home out of it. To have it all be wiped out in a matter of minutes… it was unfair.

(Not that, mind you, Crowley believed in the universe playing fair to begin with. But his point still stood: let the world be as unfair and unkind as it wanted to be towards him and everybody else. But _Aziraphale…?_ )

“You can stay at my place,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “If you like.” Hell’s bells, what else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t about to leave the angel to figure it out all on his own. Not after having lost everything. A selfish part of Crowley even hoped that he would stay. Share the flat together. It would be nice, he thought, as he pictured it. Cooking meals for each other. Bickering over chores. Sharing a…

 _No_ , he scolded himself, and pushed the daydreams away. This was only temporary. Aziraphale would stay with him till he was back on his feet, and then things would go back to the way they were. This was just a favor. A favor he was doing for a friend. Nothing more.

Aziraphale shook his head in response. “I don’t — I don’t think my side would like that,” he said softly. His eyes looked dewey as he looked away again, and Crowley wanted to rip out the spine of whoever was responsible for this. Somebody’s sake, it wasn’t _fair_.

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale’s head snapped back to him. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

He waited for Aziraphale to protest. To deny it, just like he had days ago. Days that already felt like years, even to him. But Aziraphale was silent. Just those same sad eyes staring at him, those same taut lips and upturned brows. So maybe he had finally gotten through to the angel. Maybe, Crowley had finally convinced him that there was more to this than just an Arrangement.

“Like Agnes said,” he continued, “we’re going to have to choose our faces wisely.”

Crowley lifted a hand to hail the bus down, and it pulled to a stop.

* * *

Two new things happened as they took their seats. The first was that Aziraphale sat next to him. In the past, they had always sat across from each other on the bus, or in a seat in front of the other, or behind. The second, was that Aziraphale took his hand as he seated himself.

 _Oh_ , Crowley thought, as he glanced between his hand and Aziraphale several times. This was new. _Very_ new. Aziraphale’s hand was soft and warm against Crowley’s bony fingers, and he never wanted to let go.

Aziraphale must have noticed his surprise, because he quickly withdrew his hand. “I-I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Am I — Was that too forward of me?”

Crowley swallowed. “N-nhn-nghk _no_ ,” he stammered, and he slid his fingers back into Aziraphale’s palm. “ ‘S nice.”

Aziraphale flashed him a brief, small smile, and brought his other hand to cover Crowley’s. “Your hands are cold, dear fellow.”

Crowley stretched out his legs, holding back a snarl as he rolled his neck. He turned his face to the window and prayed to Somebody that the angel wasn’t seeing how red his face had gotten. “ ‘M always cold,” he said flippantly, and hoped that would be the end of it.

“As I’m well aware,” Aziraphale said as he massaged his knuckles. Crowley forced his lungs to still in an attempt to quiet the thudding in his chest, and keenly sent his attention to the stains and scratches on the bus window instead. The pair quieted.

“Have you ever done it before?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley glanced out from the corner of his glasses. “Done what?”

He saw Aziraphale shuffle in his seat, the rhythm of the angel’s hands over his own growing irregular. “It’s just that — well. Back at the airbase. When you stopped time for Adam.”

“Mhmn,” Crowley hummed. “Paris.”

It took a minute for Aziraphale to remember. “At the Bastille,” he said.

“ _Ee_ -yup.”

Aziraphale paused. “This was… I just, well. I couldn’t help but notice. Today was somewhat… _different_.”

“Different how?” Crowley asked, and he finally turned his head back to him. What was the angel going on about…?

“In the cell, it was just…” Aziraphale brought his hands back to himself as he untangled his thoughts. “Paris was different from today, Crowley. You didn’t just _stop_ time, it was almost as if… as if you brought us to a different plane entirely.”

Ah. Crowley growled a little sigh and looked back out to the darkened roads. “Stakes were high,” he mumbled.

“Oh,” Aziraphale huffed, though there was no trace of impatience to be heard in his tone. “I gather that the rise of the Devil will do that, yes.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale quieted, and Crowley drank in the lull of the conversation. Aziraphale seemed like he had far too much on his mind, but him? He just wanted to get back to his flat, curl up in bed, and sleep off the next century. It’d been a long day. Too long.

“In any case,” Aziraphale murmured. He reached out for Crowley’s hand again and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

A brow from behind Crowley’s glasses frame cocked upward, and he looked down to their hands. The angel’s mild-mannered threat (but a threat, just the same) from hours earlier echoed in his mind: _I’ll never talk to you again_. Crowley nodded and turned back to the window. “Nghk.”

Aziraphale drew in a short breath. “Can I ask you something, Crowley?”

 _Oh, for the love of_ — Crowley tilted his head in a halfhearted nod but kept his free hand rested under his chin. “What’s got your goat, angel?”

Aziraphale’s hand stilled in its massaging. “Your car. I’m so sorry about the Bentley, dear boy. I know how much you loved it.”

“Mngh,” Crowley arched his back and his frown deepened. A far more awake and alert demon with far fewer aching limbs would have denied the four letter L-word, but the snark on his tongue had left him a few hours ago. “Just means there’s a couple of antique car auctions in my future.”

He watched Aziraphale tilt his head from out of the grated corners of his glasses. “But dear, I know — I know that in your heart, there’s no replacing it for you. Is there?”

Crowley closed his eyes and waited for the next bump in the road to jostle the bus before he answered. “No.”

He felt a warm thumb press small circles into his first knuckle. “What happened, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked softly.

“It caught fire and blew up. You were there.”

“I know that,” Aziraphale said mildly. “My meaning is _how_.”

He sighed before answering and opened his eyes. “Had to take the M25 to get to the airbase. It turned into a ring of fire while I was stuck in traffic. Armageddon and all.” Crowley decided to leave out the convenient little fact that the whole thing had actually been by his own design. “No way in or out,” he continued. “So I sort of just… forced my way through.”

“And you drove the whole rest of the way there like that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t discorporate.”

“Obviously.”

He could practically hear the angel’s brain working as it put the pieces together. “Oh, my dear,” he breathed after a moment, and Crowley felt a second hand covering his own. “You must be exhausted.”

Crowley turned his gaze back to Aziraphale and frowned. “Don’t need your pity, angel.”

“I know,” he answered. “I would never expect you to. I just don’t know how you’re still standing, is all.”

He shrugged. “No choice. Needed to. Had to come find you.”

Aziraphale frowned and blinked rapidly as he looked down at their hands. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Sorry? What’ve _you_ got to be sorry for? I’m the one who told you off earlier today.” Before the bookshop burned down. Before he thought, _really_ thought, that Aziraphale was gone for good, and that someone had killed him. Crowley swallowed back the bitterness in his mouth as he realized what his last words to the angel would have been if that had actually been the case.

“For discorporating,” Aziraphale said. “I… it was an accident. When I found you, I — I could hear how distraught you were, Crowley. You knew I wouldn’t make it back in time. So I’m sorry. For… leaving you so abruptly. And at such poor of a time.”

 _Make it back in time_. Fucking heaven, Aziraphale didn’t know. He didn’t know how just hours ago, Crowley was getting piss drunk, miserable and alone, because he believed things were far, far worse than they actually were. He shook his head. “It wasn’t that, angel,” he confessed as he turned to look back at Aziraphale.

“Then what — ”

It was then that Aziraphale’s face went slack as he stared at a point past Crowley’s shoulder. He turned around, and felt his heart drop down to his stomach.

It was the bookshop. Or rather, what was left of it.

There were still firemen on the scene, putting out the last of the flames. Smoke pillowed out from the framework that remained, black skeletal beams standing amongst piles of ash. The air reeked of burnt paper and wood, and if Crowley’s eyes were stinging, he would have blamed it on the air.

“Angel,” he turned back to Aziraphale and tried to block the view from the window with his body. “Angel, look at me, it — don’t — focus on me, alright? It — ”

Aziraphale blinked rapidly as he snapped back to the present. He swallowed and raised a shaking hand to move Crowley out of the way. “Let me _see_ , Crowley.”

“Angel, no, there’s — it’s — ”

“ _Crowley_.”

The bus pulled to a halt as it faced a red light, and Crowley could almost laugh. Of course, of fucking _course_ they would get stuck here. He inhaled, opening his mouth to speak, and closed it again. He shook his head. “Fine,” he said quietly, and shuffled back into his seat.

He elected to look outside instead of at Aziraphale, who had gone deathly silent. Crowley cleared his throat and sniffed, determined not to cry. Not now, and not here. It wasn’t his obliterated home that he was staring at. Not his life’s work completely destroyed. This wasn’t his to grieve. His hand wandered back to hold Aziraphale’s without looking, and he squeezed it.

The light changed, and the bus pulled away from the scene. Crowley turned back to look at Aziraphale, and found him crying.

“It’s really gone,” he said in a small voice that bordered on disbelief.

Crowley nearly raised a hand to wipe away the tears, but thought better of it. “I’m sorry.”

“All of it,” Aziraphale said. “Gone.”

Crowley frowned, finding himself at a loss. “We — we’ll figure it out,” he tried lamely. “You — I-I’ll get you a new booksho— ”

It was then that Aziraphale covered his eyes with his free hand and wept in earnest, and Crowley realized he had said exactly the _wrong_ thing. “Oh,” Aziraphale managed between sobs. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

It had been a few hundred years since Crowley last saw him cry like this. He swallowed hard, lips taut as he reached out to squeeze the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale barreled into him, burying his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, and he seized still. He hesitated, but slowly, eventually, wrapped his arms around Aziraphale. He needed this, badly. Crowley could push aside his feelings for at least that much; heaven, he had to. Aziraphale trembled underneath him, and without even thinking, one of his hands reached up to hold the back of his head. He drove away selfish thoughts about how soft the angel’s hair was and screwed his eyes shut as they held each other for the rest of their way to Mayfair.

* * *

“Make yourself at home,” Crowley said as he discarded his sunglasses on his desk. He tried not to think about the irony — despite living here since the building was erected, his flat was hardly a home. It was one of the reasons why he never invited Aziraphale here before in the first place. The angel liked creature comforts. He liked clutter and warmth, lived-in and well-loved spaces. His flat was anything but. It was a place for Crowley to brood, to sleep, and to keep his plants, and beyond that served little purpose. But for now, it was all they had.

He turned around to face Aziraphale, who still lingered a few paces behind. He’d been quiet ever since they got off the bus, and it was starting to unnerve him. “You can stay as long as you need to,” he muttered. “Till you sort things out.”

Aziraphale’s eyes came back into focus, and he blinked rapidly, nodding a little as he flashed a brief, small smile. “Thank you,” he said thickly. “I-I’ll do my best not to impose.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley shrugged as he leaned against his desk. Aziraphale still stayed rooted to where he stood, sniffling and fidgeting his hands while avoiding Crowley’s eyes. Crowley sighed, snapped his fingers, and a box of tissues materialized onto his desk. The effort made his vision go spotty, and he remembered that after the day he’s had, he should probably lay _off_ on the miracles. He winced as he blinked the tunnel vision away, and grabbed the box to hold it out to Aziraphale. “Here.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s expression melted into one of gratitude, and he stepped closer to take the box. “Oh, thank you,” he said, and pulled out a sheet to blow his nose.

Crowley pushed himself off the desk and strode towards his kitchen. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”

Aziraphale did a double take over his shoulder as Crowley passed him. “And what might that be?”

“What would you say,” Crowley drawled as he opened his liquor cabinet, “to spending a little bit of quality time with our good friend Merle?”

“Merle…?” Aziraphale followed him into the other room. “I don’t know anyone named Merl — _oh_.”

Aziraphale entered, and Crowley held a bottle of Merlot in each hand, a brow raised and a smug grin on his face. “1937,” he said, and waggled the bottle in his left hand. “Care for a hit?”

Aziraphale frowned, and set the box of tissues down on the counter. “Much as I’d like to, I think we better not,” he admitted. “We still need to decipher Agnes’ final prophecy, and I don’t think that will help our thinking caps any.”

“Sure it will,” Crowley turned around and opened the drawer where he kept his bottle opener. “We get all of our best ideas after we’ve had a few.”

“And we have,” Aziraphale insisted. “At the bus stop. Now — please, put that away,” he stepped closer to Crowley and covered the hand that held the bottle opener, forcing it down to the counter. Their eyes met, and the air went still between them. Aziraphale cleared his throat after a moment and withdrew his hand. “You don’t look well, Crowley,” he whispered. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve had quite a day, and frankly I don’t think you should be having any more. Please.”

They studied each other silently, and Crowley hated it. He hated that Aziraphale could see right through him, and even more so, he hated that he was _right_ , the bastard. He snarled, and pushed both the wine and the bottle opener aside. “Fine,” he said, and walked away.

“Crowley, wait…”

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he announced without looking back, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Great thinking spaces, showers. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

Aziraphale was following him. “Will you _stop_ acting so childish and just — ”

“ _Childish?!_ ” Crowley spun on his heels, and instantly regretted it as a wave of vertigo washed over him. He sidestepped to regain some semblance of balance. “I’m not acting _childish_ , I’m…” he lost his train of thought as he realized his peripheral vision was dimming again, and faster this time. “...Huh.”

Aziraphale stepped closer and peered at him, looking even more concerned than he already did. “Crowley?”

“ ‘M not childish,” he slurred, feeling as though the floor was tilting. Was it tilting? It looked an awful lot like it was tilting. _Why was it tilting?_ “I’m… ‘m older than time itse— ”

His knees buckled, and the last thing he heard was his name before the world went dark.

* * *

“ _—rowley? Crowley!_ ”

His skull felt like it was in a vise, and whoever was shouting his name wasn’t doing him any favors. Crowley groaned and squinted awake to a blur of cream and beige hovering over him. He rubbed his eyes, and his sight sharpened. The blur turned into Aziraphale, who somehow managed to look both worried and furious all at once. “You _wicked_ serpent,” he scolded. “You frightened me. Why didn’t you tell me how poorly you were feeling?”

“…Didn’t know that I was,” Crowley said, stunned. He turned his head as he looked around to get his bearings. “Why am I on the floor?”

“You fainted,” Aziraphale answered, and he sighed. “I should’ve known you were more drained than you were letting on. You dastardly, vile, lying — ”

“I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale cut his halfhearted insults short, and his face softened. “Yes, well, I rather suppose that you are,” he chided, and offered Crowley a hand. He helped him to his feet, and he wobbled a bit before he regained his footing. “Right then,” Crowley said as he straightened his posture. “Shower.”

Aziraphale’s face went slack with alarm as he glanced Crowley up and down. “Absolutely _not_ ,” he exclaimed. “Suppose it happens again, and you hurt yourself? No, the last thing we need is another discorporation on our hands,” he took Crowley’s arm and led him out of the kitchen. “Show me to the washroom, I’ll draw you a bath instead.”

Crowley balked, stammering and feeling a flush rise to his face. Aziraphale had a point, he did, but… “I-I-I — _mm-mn-hngk_ — I don’t — I-I think I can handle a bath myself, angel.”

But Aziraphale was still holding his arm, tugging him along and leading him out of the kitchen. “And what if you fall unconscious in there, too? You could slip under the water and drow— ”

“You know we don’t actually need to breathe, right?”

Aziraphale stopped walking and whirled around to face him. “Will you stop being so insufferably prideful and just let me _help_ you?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped, stunned by the angel’s tone. Aziraphale stared back, looking equally as shocked, and almost… frightened, maybe? He couldn’t say for sure. Aziraphale drew in a breath to speak, then clamped his mouth shut as he obviously second guessed his words. He glanced away for a moment, and the eyes that returned seemed almost guilty. 

“All these years, you’ve been saving my skin and looking after me when there was never any reason for you to do so,” he said quietly. “Allow me to return the favor. Please.”

Crowley quieted. There were always reasons he would come to Aziraphale’s rescue. More than he would care to admit. The Arrangement being one of them. The idea of doing his job on Earth alone another. But deep down, it was more than that. For him, at least, it had always been more than that. And Crowley suspected that in the past few decades, the angel was slowly starting to catch up to him. That whatever it was that they had between them, it was more than just some gentleman’s agreement. More than a convenient working relationship. And with each passing year — the past eleven, especially — it felt like that space was beginning to close. Like the words they both didn’t dare to admit out loud was growing closer to their tongues. It was what Crowley wanted, what he _dreamed_ of, for the last six thousand years. And right now, he felt like the closest he’d ever been to it.

He didn’t know that it would be quite this terrifying.

Aziraphale, with the patience of a — well, _saint_ , waited in silence for his answer. A gentle squeeze on his arm pulled him out of his thoughts, and Crowley flinched back to the present. He sighed, and jutted his chin out toward the opposite hallway.

“Master bath’s through the bedroom, down and to the left,” he conceded.

Aziraphale smiled warmly in gratitude. “Splendid,” he said, and stood closer next to Crowley. He placed a gentle hand on his back, and herded him down the hall.

* * *

“How warm do you like it, dear?”

Aziraphale had hung his overcoat on the spare hook, next to Crowley’s black silk bathrobe. His sleeves were rolled as he leaned across the tub, testing the temperature of the water with his wrist. It was a charming look on him, Crowley thought. Just the waistcoat, the button down, and the bare arms. There was something so intimately… _casual_ about it all, something so relaxed in contrast to all the layers and fussiness the angel usually wore. He just wished he wasn’t as exhausted as he was so he could appreciate it more.

He dragged a hand down his face. “Hot as it goes and then some,” he said, and looked around. Right. Not too many places to sit in a bathroom. He made way for the toilet and slumped onto the lidded seat.

He watched Aziraphale crank the faucet as far to the right as it could go, and a steady roll of steam began to emerge from the pouring water. He shook his hands dry, stood, and turned. There was something unreadable in his expression as he studied Crowley, and he hated it. Something like pity, hesitation, fear, and a plea for permission all rolled into one. Whatever it was, it was too much at once. Far more than Crowley cared for on a good day.

He saw Aziraphale’s throat working. “What will be most comfortable for you, then?” he asked pointedly.

Crowley’s lips parted and he mulled it over. “Boxers are fine,” he shrugged after a moment.

Aziraphale nodded, fingers fluttering and letting out a long breath. He approached Crowley slowly, carefully, and knelt. Their eyes met, the silence between them a weight that neither party dared to push. Aziraphale broke the gaze, bit his lip, and reached for Crowley’s tie.

Crowley let the accessory be lifted over his head, and his eyes unfocused, aimed at a spot past the angel’s shoulder. How many times had he imagined something like this? How many different scenarios and circumstances had he run through his head? And why now, all of a sudden, was he regretting just how imaginative he really was?

He thought this was what he wanted. But now that it was happening, that it was _real_ , Crowley wanted nothing more than to lash out, snarl, get up and walk away. It was _easier_. This thousand-year dance that they’d been doing, this unnamed — _ineffable_ — thing that they had going on. It was all easier. Easier than whatever… whatever _this_ was.

He was absently aware of the fingers undoing his waistcoat, the shuffling of shoulders as he helped peel off his jacket, but otherwise remained in his dissociative trance. He struggled to push away the thought of kisses peppering his skin, of his own fingers helping Aziraphale become just as bare. But the reveries kept emerging: visions of being in bed instead of a bathroom; of silk sheets instead of steam; of a millennia’s worth of longing finally realized. But it wouldn’t — _he_ wouldn’t. Crowley came to his own conclusions a long, _long_ time ago. Aziraphale loved all things in the way only an angel could: universal, but distanced. The closest Crowley could ever come to something like an angel’s love was an arm’s length appreciation for Her creations, no matter how wretched, how evil, how Fallen. It would never be anything more than that. And he wasn’t about to drag Aziraphale down to his level.

His shoes slipped off, and he looked down to see the top of the angel’s hair. Still perfectly coiffed and curled despite the events of the day. He remembered how soft it felt beneath his hand earlier that evening, and sensed himself growing tempted. His fingers twitched, and Crowley clenched them into fists to keep them from wandering.

Aziraphale looked up, and must have noticed how tense he was since his eyes fell while he looked Crowley over. “Are you alright?”

Crowley nodded tersely as he looked away. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale frowned, and propped himself up on the balls of his feet. Crowley could feel his eyes on his face, but found the grating between the tiles a far safer thing to stare at. Had they always been that ugly? He’d have to remodel at some point. Granite flooring, what was he _thinking?_ Marble would be much more — 

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale spoke his name quiet but firm, in the sort of tone Crowley knew brokered no argument. He flicked his eyes over to Aziraphale for just a moment, but kept his head bent. It wasn’t until he felt a hand — _Aziraphale’s_ hand — holding his face did he dare to force his gaze back to the angel’s. Aziraphale’s blue-gray eyes, usually so inviting and warm, were a steely storm of concern. “Please don’t lie to me, dearest,” he whispered.

Crowley gaped, all manner of thought catching as stuttered noise in his throat. “I-I-I’m fine, angel,” he managed after a moment, a trembling hand raising to lower Aziraphale’s. “I’m just tired.”

Aziraphale frowned, his eyes searching Crowley’s face for any clues that would point to the contrary. Finding none, he cleared his throat and offered a terse nod. “Tub’s nearly full,” he said, and moved to stand.

Crowley rolled his shoulders and bit back a sigh. His bare skin prickled with a chill, and he moved from his seat with a quiet grunt. Aziraphale had switched off the faucet and was standing there puttering about smoothing the towels. A nervous tick Crowley recognized; the angel was only making himself look busy. He frowned, and turned his attention to the tub. Gentle wisps of steam pillowed off the smoky gray water, and Crowley’s muscles ached for the warmth. He stepped into the pool, and couldn’t help the huge, satisfied sigh that escaped him as he reclined. The water was scalding, hotter than any human flesh could tolerate, but for a demon? It was the next best thing to Hellfire he could ever find on this plane.

“Just to your liking?” he heard Aziraphale ask, and Crowley hummed contentedly, his eyes closed. “ _Good_ ,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, and he approached the side of the tub.

Crowley cracked an eyelid open, and saw the angel rolling up his sleeves even farther past his elbows. Crowley had to hold back an inscrutable noise — any more skin, and he would probably discorporate from ogling. _Bastard_.

Aziraphale didn’t say a word, surprisingly. Usually when his — _the_ angel was all pent up like this, he couldn’t get himself to shut up. Babbled on about nothing, especially if it would buy him some time. But right now, he was silent. Crowley didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. He watched as the angel reached for a pitcher, newly miracled, and set to scooping out a portion of bathwater. He rested that gloriously soft hand against Crowley’s forehead, and before he could ask why, a stream of water poured over his scalp and down his neck.

 _Shit. Shit. Bollocks_. This had sounded like such a good idea earlier, in the abstract. But nope. This was too much. Abort mission. Crowley flinched, and the water around him shuddered into ripples.

Aziraphale halted with his pitcher still raised. “Did I splash your eyes?” he asked.

Crowley swallowed hard. “Mn-N-No,” he said, forcing his screaming muscles to _stay put_. “Just…” he mulled it over. “Not used to this.”

The angel hummed as he smoothed over Crowley’s wetted hair. “Frankly neither am I,” he admitted.

Crowley squinted. “Liar,” he croaked. “I know about your little nursing stint during World War One. _And_ the plague.”

Aziraphale’s jaw worked as he went for another scoop of water. “Yes, well,” he huffed after a moment. “You see. Back then I only ever bathed _bodies_ , you know, dear boy.”

“Oh,” Crowley retracted. _Strike one_.

A second helping of water guided by the angel’s careful hands trickled down his nape. Crowley’s fingers twitched where they lay on the sides of the tub. “ ‘M sorry about all this.”

Aziraphale’s eyes did that _blasted_ thing again, where they seemed to cycle through at least ten expressions in a matter of seconds. “Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley shook his head and loosley gestured his hands. “This,” he said. “Passing out. Getting… bloody _pampered_. I’m not… you shouldn’t have to see me like this. It’s weakness.”

Aziraphale frowned and carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair, for longer than what was probably necessary (but it wasn’t _unpleasant_ , he supposed). “You seem to forget I was blubbering in your arms just an hour earlier,” the angel said quietly. “Quite publicly, too. Neither of us are at our best right now, I’m afraid.”

“Still,” Crowley insisted. “It’s… ‘f anyone Down There saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it. Have lots of fun torturing me. Lose my post, for sure.”

Aziraphale’s lips went taut. “Be that as it may,” he said, “this isn’t _weakness_ , Crowley. You strained yourself on miracles over a short period of time, and you simply need to recuperate. That’s all.”

Crowley lolled his head. “Alpha Centauri, then,” he offered. “At least let me apologize for that.”

“You…” Aziraphale grimaced and shook his head. He turned his attention to the shower caddy lined with a variety of expensive shampoos and soaps, and reached for one. “There’s nothing to forgive, dear boy.”

“I was going to run,” Crowley leaned forward and levelled his eyes with the angel’s. “I was about to leave, like a coward, and give up on all this. Give up on… on us.” He swallowed hard. “Our side.”

Aziraphale’s eyes appeared misty again as they darted over Crowley’s face. “And I refused you,” he said quietly, and set the shampoo bottle down beside himself. “You wouldn’t have felt the need to escape if I hadn’t pushed you away. If anyone here was giving up on our side, it was me. _I_ was the one being stubborn, and wrong, and I hurt you. And I’m so _dreadfully_ sorry, Crowley. I am.”

Crowley shook his head vigorously. “No,” he insisted. “Nunono, _you_ were still trying to fix things, still trying to stop Armageddon. _I_ was going to go bugger off into the stars because I couldn’t see a way out. It was stupid.”

“Crowley, please, stop this nonsense. I already said, I forgi— ”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cut him off squarely. “If you had come with me, the world would be _gone_ and the war would be in full swing by now. You were doing the right thing, and I wasn’t.” _As usual_ , he mentally kicked himself. “So just… _let_ me be sorry about this. Please.”

They stared at each other for a moment before Aziraphale broke the silence. “I know you were only acting out of fear,” he said gently. “I was frightened, too. That’s how I know you didn’t mean anything you said to me in that moment. I already forgave you, right then and there. Now please, just — ” he reached out a hand to touch Crowley’s shoulder and pushed him down gently, “ — sit back and let me wash you. We can put Alpha Centauri behind us.”

Crowley obliged, but pouted anyway. “ _Fine_.”

“Crowley…”

“Get it over with, then.”

“Don’t be so petulant.”

“What do you _want_ me to be, Aziraphale?” he asked, shrugging helplessly. “Can’t… can’t help how I feel.” He swallowed hard.

A spiced musk of sandalwood and cinnamon reached his nose as the angel poured shampoo into his palm. “I know. But as I said, I’ve already forgiven you. I won’t speak any more on the matter.”

“You know that you shouldn’t,” Crowley muttered, more to himself than anything. “You shouldn’t forgive a demon.”

Aziraphale stilled and stared at him, the heartbreak clear on his face. “Nobody’s undeserving of forgiveness, dear boy. Not even you. _Especially_ not even you. You — you are daring, and brave, and _oh_ so brilliant, and for all that you’ll deny it, yes, you _are_ kind. I can’t think of anyone more deserving of forgiveness than you.”

Crowley stared in shock, feeling his throat tighten. He blinked rapidly to fight back the prickle growing in the corners of his eyes. “Try telling that to _Her_ ,” he glanced upwards.

“Oh, oh Crowley, I’m — I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Crowley’s voice cracked, and still blinking far too much than he knew he usually did. “Nonononono, it’s… it’s fine. I’m okay.”

Aziraphale hesitated before turning his wrist. The shampoo fled from his palm and returned to its bottle in one swift gesture. He inched closer to Crowley and peered at him. “You’re not,” he whispered.

The way Crowley cleared his throat came out more like a growl, and he sat up again to pull his knees tight to his chest. He curled into himself and sniffed wetly as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. Bless it, he was… he was already feeling vulnerable _enough_ in front of the angel right now, why did… why did the bastard have to bring _Her_ into this? Of _all_ people?

“ _Crowley_ …” he heard Aziraphale coo, but he didn’t look up. He trembled, and felt a hand fall on his shoulder again. “It’s alright. Let it out, dear boy. I won’t tell a soul.”

And so Crowley did.

The weight of the past forty-eight hours seemed to come crashing down all at once: the Antichrist, the fire, the car, the discorporation — all of it. He hadn’t realized that, for so long, he was quite literally carrying the world on his shoulders until he was in Aziraphale’s arms. He wept into the angel’s shoulder while he held him, so much in the same way Crowley himself had for the other just a short while ago. Aziraphale shushed him and murmured assurances that he only half-heard over the roaring of his own internal instinct, to _be quiet_. He was crying, yes, but it was a muffled, restrained fit; out of habit and fear, Crowley was careful not to let out much more than a whimper. His sobs were hitched, involuntary spasms, his breaths shallow and hushed. Any more noise than that, and he knew it would be too much, for both him and the angel. He knew he was getting Aziraphale wet, but it didn’t matter — he could miracle himself dry later. For now, Crowley’s mind was buckling from the load of horrors long harbored, while the traumas crashed against the unimaginable, blissful, simply _angelic_ sensation of being embraced by his closest friend. It was everything he dreamed it would be and more: Aziraphale smelled of cocoa and yellowed parchment, of centuries-old leather and ambrosia. He exuded a warmth that was more than just corporeal, and carried such a genuine, unwavering sort of compassion that could have only been gained from walking alongside humans for millennia. Those clever, violent, _blessed_ humans.

He clawed his nails into the back of Aziraphale’s vest and gasped hugely, trying to regain regularity in the pattern of breaths he didn’t need to take. His shoulders sunk on the exhale, the sobs slowly turning to a hard but steady panting. He felt Aziraphale’s hand move from his back to his head, and Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. _Why?_ Why was the angel doing this? For as long as he could remember, Crowley had been denying himself, keeping his arm’s length — going _slow_. So why now? Why was Aziraphale indulging him like this when he’d been putting up walls between them for thousands of years? He didn’t know.

He focused on the pit of his stomach, where the most primal and serpentine part of his demonhood laid. The occultly force overtook his corporation’s want for oxygen, and he froze. He was sure to hold it for only half a breath, so as to not frighten Aziraphale, and he exhaled. Reluctantly, he pried himself off the angel, sinking back into the water and shuddering from effort. Aziraphale smoothed his clothes, and the dampness in the fabric faded to vapor. “There,” he sighed, as if he had done nothing more than sort a couple of shelves. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Mmn.”

Crowley felt a hand brush away some stray hair from his brow, and he looked to Aziraphale. His eyes were damp, but he still wore that tight, sympathetic smile as he continued tracing his fingers over Crowley’s skin. It was then that it dawned on him: he recognized that look. In his car, fifty two years ago, during the exchange of one tartan thermos.

Aziraphale nodded. “Would you like me to bathe you now?”

Crowley gawked before sniffing. “Y-yeah,” he said, and sprawled back down into the tub. “Yeah, I… that’s… yeah.”

He closed his eyes — it was easier, somehow, if he wasn’t looking — and the smell of warm spice floated to his nostrils again. He felt something viscous and cool settling on the crown of his head, followed by a pair of palms. “That’s it, now,” he heard Aziraphale say. “Clean as a whistle in no time.”

Crowley was taken by the rhythm of manicured nails massaging his scalp, and drifted into a meditative rest.

* * *

“We never got around to Agnes.”

“Come again?”

“Choosing our faces, and all that.”

“Oh. Yes, that.”

Crowley was dressed in dark flannel pajamas and laid under the covers. Aziraphale was cleaning the bathroom, after having brought Crowley to bed and miracling in some extra comforts. A thick, persian quilt, similar to the one that once rested in the backroom of the bookshop, laid comfortably over Crowley’s otherwise thin gray and black sheets. It was gaudy, and obnoxious, and frayed, and, well… well, _loved_. Crowley could sense it from the moment Aziraphale had tucked him under it. He must have miracled the replica to be as close to the real thing as it could be. It smelled of old paper and black tea, with not a trace of smoke clinging to it. Memories of the fire crept back into his mind, and he clenched at the fabric.

“It’s all a bit fucked, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale tutted mildly from the opposite room.

“You know what I mean.”

A light switched off from the bathroom, and Aziraphale moved to the windows. “Not in so many words,” he said as he drew the curtains, “but I will agree, we’re in a rather tight spot.”

Crowley snorted. “Only _you_ could call this a _tight spot_ , angel. Both head offices are _bleeding_ mad.”

Aziraphale turned around to face him. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas as to how we may escape their wrath?”

The demon grimaced. “Lemme see that bit from Agnes again.”

Aziraphale patted himself down, and his face blanched with dread before a moment’s realization. He snapped his fingers, and the note appeared in his hands. “Was in my jacket,” he mumbled as he handed it to Crowley and sat beside him.

Crowley ran his thumb over the ancient paper as he read the words again. _When all is said and all is done_ … whatever the message was, it still wasn’t making itself any clearer. Crowley shook his head. “I’ve got nothing,” he said as he handed the note back to the angel.

Aziraphale made a noise of frustration. “There must be _something_ we can parse from it,” he said, holding the prophecy in both hands. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have gotten our hands on it in the first place.”

Crowley stared at the ceiling while his throat worked. “We’re going to die tomorrow.”

“Oh, come now Crowley, we can’t — ”

“Think about it,” Crowley hissed and propped himself up on his elbow. “Heaven and Hell are going to come knocking, and my money’s on it being sooner rather than later. We _both_ took away their chances at ultimate glory, and they’re going to want that answered for.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s eyes dart as he processed. “So… you don’t mean…?”

“Execution,” Crowley said flatly, and let himself fall back onto the bed. “Has to be.”

Aziraphale swallowed and clutched at the note. “Then — then that means, that _this_ — ”

“Don’t you _get it_ , angel?” Crowley turned his head. “Neither of us can figure out what that little scrap of paper means, and clock’s ticking. Earth’s saved, Armageddon’s off, _yip-pee_. Still won’t do us any good in the end. This… this is it.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and hesitantly set the paper aside on the nightstand. He inched himself closer to Crowley, though still remained seated upright. “Do you have any regrets?” he asked softly.

Crowley winced, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Never in his thousands of years of existence did he ever think he would have to face his own mortality, but here they were. Yet as he thought it over, in all those centuries, he could think of no regrets but one. He blinked away his tears and shook his head. He couldn’t. Not yet. “You first,” he said as he looked to his right.

Quiet fell between them for a beat before Aziraphale let out a huff. “There was this… oh, that new Michelin-star restaurant that’d just opened up downtown. The one I’d been telling you about. Don’t suppose I’ll ever get to try that wagyu beef now.”

Crowley chuckled wetly, the image of Aziraphale savoring the dish coming quickly into his mind. Of _course_ the angel’s only regret would be about food. Satan, he loved him. “I uh…” he thought. “I think Queen was doing another tour again. Wouldn’t be the same without Freddie, but… would’ve been nice. To see them again.” The angel hummed in agreement. Crowley stared at him, feeling the water in his eyes trickle out of the corners. His fingers squirmed, unsure of themselves, before deciding _fuck it_. This could be the last chance he ever got. He reached out a hand to hold Aziraphale’s, his fingers creeping slowly between the other’s, and he squeezed. “I am… _really_ going to miss you, Aziraphale,” he whispered.

Aziraphale squeezed back, his smile warm and woeful. “And I, you.”

Crowley’s expression wobbled, and he let out a sharp noise. He covered his eyes with his free hand and groaned. “Can’t do this again,” he muttered.

He heard some rustling beside himself and felt his other hand come free from the angel’s. He raised his eyes and found Aziraphale… not quite lying down, but much, _much_ closer than he’d been earlier. “What on Earth do you mean, _‘do this again’_?” he asked.

 _Fuck_. Oh, he’d really gone and done it, now. Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened, closed it again. How was he supposed to say this? It was never supposed to come out in the first place. _I thought you were dead, not discorporated, dead, as in D-E-A-D dead, and I went off to go drink myself into next week so I could curl up and die while the world burned?_ Yeah, no. Laying it on way too thick there.

“Crowley.”

He felt some fingers ghost above his brow, and he flinched. He saw Aziraphale staring at him, the concern growing on his face while he traced lines on the demon’s skin. He drew in a deep breath. “Back when… during the fire. At the bookshop.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You were there?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I was on my way to come get you, after you called. When I heard the sirens, I — I didn’t think it’d be yours, but… it was.” He swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t know… I thought it was Hellfire. In there. And… you were gone.”

The realization on Aziraphale’s face looked as though it punched him in the gut. “ _Oh_ , dearest,” he breathed, and brushed his hand through Crowley’s hair. “Oh, oh, I can’t _begin_ to imagine.”

A tear seeped down the side of his face as he stared blankly ahead. He let it fall; he’d run out of reasons to scold himself for it. The angel had already seen him bawling tonight, what did a little more waterworks matter? He felt Aziraphale’s thumb sweep against his cheek, and he screwed his eyes shut. “All I could think about,” he said around the thickness in his throat, “was that you were gone, and the last thing I ever did was yell at you, and…” he blinked his eyes open. “There was _so much_ I never told you.”

Aziraphale was still quietly fawning over him, stroking his hair and drying his face. “Well,” the angel whispered after a moment. “I’m here now. If there’s… anything at all, you wish to confess before our demise…” he shrugged a shoulder.

“Mnghf,” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. _Guess we’re doing this_. He drew in a deep breath. “Listen, angel,” he said low. “If… i-if we really are about to go up in smoke, there’s… there is one thing you should know.”

Aziraphale caressed his temple. “Yes?”

Crowley could feel his flighty, irritating, all-too-human heart pounding into his throat. This was stupid, it was _wrong_ , it was going to completely change the way Aziraphale looked at him, and yet… did he really want to be destroyed without having ever said anything? He already had a taste of what that felt like. He didn’t want to relive it. If there was ever a time, this was it. He leveled his eyes to the angel. “Y-you should know,” he started, “Y… you’re not like the other angels. Knew it from day one. If I’d been given anyone else, I probably would’ve quit _ages_ ago. But you…” he scoffed. “You give the mortals a weapon of _God_ just because you’re a bleeding heart. And… and I knew. Right then and there. You were different.”

He felt his eyes well up again, and he wiped at them. “My — my point is… if you were anyone else, I would’ve hated you. Like, _really_ hated you,” he gave a crooked grin, and Aziraphale let out a soft chuckle. “But… I don’t. Not even a little. If… if we really are going to die tomorrow, I need… I need you to know…” _Here we go_. “I — IneedyoutoknowthatIloveyou.”

Aziraphale stilled completely. His eyes widened just a fraction larger, and Crowley could feel regret seeping into his limbs as quickly as he said the words. His head began to dizzy with shame. “Th-that is,” he stammered, “you’re my best friend and all, yeah, but I… _love_ love you, you know? And — a-and I never said anything, because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, or the Arrangement, and you probably thought I couldn’t even _feel_ love anyway, so I — ”

He was cut off by the touch of soft lips meeting his, and he let out a muted, startled noise. He stared at Aziraphale, frozen, while the angel… _kissed_ him. Mouth-on-mouth, _actually_ kissed him. It didn’t make any sense, it was confusing, and _oh_ , it was probably just one of those angel things, another way to show their affection, agape and all that. And yet… it was absolutely _divine_. His eyelids fluttered closed as he allowed himself to relax into the gesture. Aziraphale pulled back breathless and Crowley looked at him confused. “Wh…?”

“Oh, my _darling_ ,” he said hushed. “I never knew you felt the same.”

A neuron misfired in the back of Crowley’s brain. “Wh — _oi_ , hang on,” he awkwardly propped himself upright. “You _wot?!_ ”

Aziraphale stared at him perplexed. “Did you really think for all these years that I never cared for you?”

“W… well, no,” Crowley admitted. “But, y-you know, I always sort of thought it was an… an _angel_ thing. You love everything. No reason that I’d be any different.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said. “Of _course_ you’re different. If I’d truly disdained your company, I would have washed my hands clean of you centuries ago.”

Crowley snorted. “Thanks,” he said drily.

Azirphale ignored the jab, and looked at him squarely. “You’re different. You always have been. And there are countless reasons why. You’ve always come to my rescue, and covered for me when you _truly_ didn’t need to, and — a-and you treat me to lunches, and wine, and drive the worst of my customers away, and… and you’re quite possibly the _only_ being in this entire world who understands me. And I understand you.” He took Crowley’s hand in his and squeezed. “Of _course_ I love you, my dear boy.”

Crowley balked while he stared up at Aziraphale. “So… y-you _love_ love me, or…?”

“Enamoured, infatuated, twitterpated — ”

“ _Twitterpated?_ ”

“Yes,” Aziraphale blinked. “Head over heels.”

“Nobody says _twitterpated_ anymore, angel. Whatever that means.”

Aziraphale sighed a bit overdramatically. “Does the terminology really matter?”

“Yes!” Crowley insisted. “You’re not fooling anyone that you exist in this decade, let alone this _century_ talking like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy in that bakery down the street seem to understand me just fine.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just get with the times, angel. Get up to speed with _something_ , for once in your blasted life.”

Aziraphale’s grin grew wry. “Caught up with you, didn’t I?”

“ _Nghk_ ,” Crowley gulped, feeling as though he’d been whacked upside the head. “This isn’t… I’m not too fast for you anymore?”

“ _Dearest_ ,” Aziraphale breathed. “No. Not anymore.” The angel leaned down to kiss him again, and Crowley could swear he’d been discorporated. This had to be Hell’s punishment, he thought. He was already dead, and they were tricking him into thinking that Aziraphale could ever feel the same way. He tugged at the angel’s vest and returned the kiss, fierce and hungry, filling his senses with every trace he could find to convince himself that this was real. The corduroy texture of his waistcoat, the weight of another body hovering over his own, the quilt miracled onto his bed so detailed that only Aziraphale could have known it — anything Crowley could get to ground himself. The angel’s lips were chaster but no less passionate than his, and it dawned on him that maybe his partner needed this as badly as he did. He whimpered into Aziraphale’s mouth before pulling back. “How long?” he asked.

Aziraphale panted. “Pardon?”

“How long have you been in love with me?”

The angel smiled sheepishly. “Does it really matter?”

Crowley fidgeted with the blankets. “I-I’d like to know.”

Aziraphale mused for a few moments. “It’s likely been longer than I realized,” he admitted. “I just didn’t know how to put a name to it. But… the moment I was _sure_ I knew was after the Blitz. When you saved me from those Nazis. And the books.”

Crowley puzzled as he worked out the numbers, and felt his features fall slack. “1941,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

“That was — but that was seventy — _eighty_ years ago.”

“I know,” Aziraphale flushed. “I was simply… well. It took _quite_ a long time for me to reconcile that I was in love with the enemy. Or, perceived enemy, rather.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathed. “I’ve loved you since the _garden_.”

Aziraphale gaped. “That long?”

Crowley shrugged. “Wh — yeah. Probably longer, if I could remember anything before the Fall. But I don’t much, anymore,” he sighed. “Nobody Down Below wanted to take an indefinitely long post on Earth, but you know, I thought, _‘anything to get me out of this place’_ , so up I went. And er… you were — well, _you_ ,” he gestured loosely at Aziraphale. “You were the first person in hundreds of years who didn’t look at me like I was worthless.”

Aziraphale grimaced bashfully. “Well, what sort of an angel would I’ve been if I’d done that? I wasn’t about to be _rude_ to you.”

“But that’s my point,” Crowley said. “You weren’t just — polite, or anything, you _literally_ let me in under your wing. Me. A demon.”

“Well, I — i-it was raining, and I — ”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cut him off. “You don’t have to make excuses anymore. There was something _there_ from the first day, and you know it.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “I only ever did what I thought was right,” he murmured.

“I know,” Crowley replied just as soft. “That’s what makes you better than the whole lot of them.”

The angel smiled, and lowered himself closer to Crowley. “Well, if we’re keeping score,” he started, “you were never quite what I expected out of an adversary, either.”

Crowley cocked a brow. “Really?”

Aziraphale hummed, and traced circles on the demon’s shoulder. “Do you remember the Flood?”

Crowley frowned. “Try not to. Nasty business.”

“You rescued those children.”

“You saw that?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Aziraphale asked. “I only ever saw a few of them, but yes, I did catch a glimpse at your little stowaways.”

Crowley quieted. “Couldn’t just let them drown.”

“Any other demon would have _relished_ in the suffering. But you didn’t. You were troubled. Angry, even. So much so that you were willing to thwart the Almighty, however small.”

“Demon,” Crowley said plainly. “Thwarting’s the job.”

“Not the kind that you do,” Aziraphale said mildly. “In all my days I’ve rarely seen you be outright malicious.”

“Because what’s the fun in that?” Crowley asked. “I’ve been miserable enough for one lifetime, and the humans do a spot-on job with that themselves, anyway.”

“Have you? Always been miserable?”

Crowley frowned as he pondered it. He let his hand reach up to cover Aziraphale’s, and he clenched it gently. “No,” he admitted. “Not always. Not when I was with you.”

Aziraphale’s face melted. “You _charmer_ ,” he said as he leaned down.

“Softie,” Crowley quipped back.

“Defiler.”

“Pansy.”

“ _Love_ ,” Aziraphale whispered above Crowley’s lips before they kissed again, and his heart soared at the new endearment. _Love_. In all his immortal years, he never imagined being anybody’s love ever again. And yet an angel’s mouth was on his own, because they’d chosen so. Chosen _him_. It was the closest thing to Grace Crowley had felt in Someone knew how many years. Aziraphale had the taste of incense to him, a heavenly scent that followed him from his visits Upstairs. But past that note there was chamomile and vanilla, and that _glorious_ celestial warmth that glowed from inside, as if there were a star that lived at the angel’s very core. The thought of nebulas impassioned Crowley further, and he moaned into Aziraphale’s mouth. His fingers went for the angel’s collar, and he undid the knot that sat above his throat.

Aziraphale pulled back, and glanced between the loose bowtie and Crowley. “Cheeky,” he said with a smirk.

Crowley lolled his head. “Didn’t look too comfortable.”

Aziraphale nodded sagely and pulled the tie free from his neck. “Mustn't get too excited,” he chided. “You’re still recovering.”

Crowley’s eyes were pleading. “We might not get another chance.”

A twinge of disappointment ran across Aziraphale’s face. “I know,” he murmured. “But I won’t risk exhausting you, Crowley. Not when you’re already in such a state.”

Crowley pouted, but still nodded. He sighed. “Would I have been your first?” he asked after a beat.

Aziraphale quieted. “Yes,” he admitted. “Would I have been yours?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered. “Yeah, you would have. Always thought it best to leave that sort of business to other demons. You?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’d gotten offers a few times over the years, but I was never too terribly interested in knowing any humans in the… well, _biblical_ sense.”

They stared at each other in silence for a handful of seconds before Crowley snorted, and the tension broke. They both broke out laughing, Aziraphale throwing his head back while Crowley cackled. For a moment, things were as they were before. Any thoughts of vengeance being reigned upon them were vanished, as if Armageddon and the Antichrist were nothing more than an exceedingly long bad dream. For a moment, Crowley felt like he was back in the bookshop after hours, shrugging off his latest assignment and sharing drinks with his closest friend. For a moment, they were _safe_. As the laughing faded, Aziraphale sighed, and lowered himself to kiss Crowley on the forehead. “You should rest,” he whispered as he pulled back.

Crowley’s face fell. “I — mmn — n-no, that’s… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Crowley, you’re _exhausted_ ,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t — ”

“What if they come back?” he asked, the urgency in his voice colored with dread. “Either of them, Heaven or Hell? If they come for us, and I’m not there to protect you…” he let his knuckles trail down the angel’s arm.

“You’re no use to us dead on your feet,” Aziraphale said as he brushed some hair away from Crowley’s eyes. “And you’ve done more than your fair share of protecting me over the past six thousand years. If anyone _dares_ come near you tonight, I will _smite them_ where they stand.”

Crowley hummed, bemused. “Still hate to miss that. You going all Old Testament on them.”

“Wiler,” the angel teased. “Always the clever one, you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Crowley said.

“Sleep,” Aziraphale ordered. “I’ll keep watch, and continue thinking on the prophecy. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Crowley felt the softness in his expression as he considered it. “You’ll stay with me?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’d love nothing more.”

The blankets rustled as Crowley inched himself closer. Aziraphale similarly settled himself under the covers, changing from his day clothes to a powder blue nightgown with a snap of his fingers. Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist and settled his head on his lap. He let out a satisfactory sigh as he settled next to him, his angel’s form plush and warm against his own. He felt a hand fall on his head. “Have a dreamless rest, dear heart,” he felt Aziraphale’s voice reverberate against him. “Sleep well and sleep hard.”

There was only the tiniest hint of angelic persuasion behind his words. Crowley didn’t mind. If this really was his last night on Earth, he was happy to have it ended like this.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that absolutely everyone at this point has done this missing scene, but I really wanted to write my own take on it. I've been working on this for months, and I purposefully haven't read anyone else's stuff related to this so I could keep my inspiration fresh. If this feels like it has any semblance to another work, I promise it's pure coincidence, and I'm sorry.
> 
> This fic was a HUGE labor of love, and by far the longest thing I've written in years, so please drop a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed it! Special thanks to my beta reader, chocolatemudkip on here/@chocomudkip on twitter.


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